Rêver
by trace-of-rouge
Summary: Erik likes to dream. It is very easy to, he thinks. If there was any indulgence he allowed himself liberally, it was to dream. E/C Oneshot.


Erik likes to dream. _It is very easy to_, he thinks. If there was any indulgence he allowed himself liberally, it was to dream. He did it as often as he could as a child, starved for interaction and the outside world. Behind a cloth mask, he saw a wide expanse of land he had read in books; met a variety of people he knew he'd never meet. As a youth, it was a little different. His dreams were more akin to ambitions: of his music being recognized, of his architectural designs being praised. Even at the darkest point of his life-surrounded by corpses, an entertained court, and a pleased _khanum_-he dreamed still. So many dreams; so many of them and none of them found its way to his reality.

He watches Christine from behind her mirror. She is praying softly, her lips silently mouthing the words. He allows himself the privilege of speaking to her. "Christine," he murmurs, but the sound encompasses her entirely. It is his own prayer.

"Angel," she whispers in her dressing room. Her eyes are so bright. Her fingers tightly clench the fabric of her dress-she always shook in the presence of his voice and this spurs him on. "Speak to me, maestro." Her voice is full of reverence, and it is almost a whisper. The joy is palpable.

"You did well tonight, child," he says, this time. It is true. She performed exceptionally. She was brilliant: a beacon of light on that stage! A real honor was bestowed on that audience tonight. He cannot keep his praises to himself, not when he knows she yearns for them as ardently as he yearns for her. He watches as she casts her eyes to her lap, a smile on her lips, and a blush blossoming on her cheeks. He does not control himself. He lets his fingers touch the glass, pretending it is her cheek his finger rests upon.

"Thank you, maestro! It is all for you! I sang for you!" At this bold declaration, she lifts her chin and smiles widely. She is trembling and he can tell it took all her courage to say it. Christine is very shy by nature, and, very often, she is hesitant to speak her mind. His heart swells proudly. He would give her all he could offer, after she had given him (and so willingly) a glorious portion of her soul.

"Thank you, Christine." He controls his voice, not letting it waver despite the intense emotion of happiness that threatens to send him shaking uncontrollably. The utterance of her name sends Christine to a giddy frenzy, and it is very obvious. He never really understood it until he realized that if Christine were to say his, he would most likely be in a similar state.

_Erik._

He halts the thought, unwilling to let himself be utterly consumed by his emotions tonight. He might find it difficult to return home, he thinks wryly.

"Angel, angel-!" Christine is emboldened. He can tell she is going to ask him of something. He knows, before she has even said her request, that he would do it without question. "Please, maestro, won't you sing for me tonight? As a... as a..." He watches her blink rapidly; she is trying not to show her trepidation. "As a reward," she finally finishes, very quietly and softly.

She deserves so much more. But what else could he give beyond his life?_ Here is Death himself, Christine. Have him at your will!_ It almost makes him laugh. If she asked him to reveal himself now, he honestly thought he would. But to her request, he acquiesces.

His voice brings her to tears, and this only encourages him further. Could she, perhaps, overlook his curse for their music? Could he, at last, believe all his dreams could reach fruition? But he does not find the courage to seek the answers. At the end of his song, he leaves immediately. He doesn't wait for her reaction; he doesn't think he can take it. He isn't as steadfast as he likes to believe-there is only so much he can take. He walks away from the mirror as quickly as he can and leans against a wall. His chest tightens painfully at the thought of her. He thinks of the soft swell of her chest as she controls her tears, and he finds himself no longer able to face her tonight.

From a distance, he can hear her gratitude. Her voice shakes; he can tell she's trying not to cry and he realizes he's trying to do the same. He is in a sudden fury at being unable to give her all he could give. This accursed face! But his anger abates at her voice. She is still thanking him. He can hear her distantly. It takes all his strength to not come back and revel in her kindness.

Instead he makes his way back home-beneath her and far from her, within stone upon stone, and with only his music and his books as company. He is spent emotionally, and tries to hate dreaming. Dreaming brought nothing! Dreaming brought him only so close to Christine! And yet he becomes conscious of the fact that he would willingly die for the splendor of that distance if it was all he could ever have.

He thinks fondly of her dressing room. When they have lessons, her laughter echoes around him; it brings him closer to a supernatural emotion that he knew surpassed what his voice was to her. She was the genuine angel between them. His love for her went much farther beyond his need to be loved, or his desire to not be alone. The barest of her soul was only what his music wished to accomplish, to become. It is only Christine, it would only be Christine.

Again, the silence permeates around him, and he realizes he is-once again-allowing himself to dream. He thinks of her-curls around her face, bright stars in her eyes. In all of the most ambitious of his dreams, a woman to love him was perhaps too impossible. Christine's devotion to the music and her complete surrender to his voice was all he needed to-shamefully!-let himself dream! A wife, he thinks, with an embarrassed thrill. Christine to take out on Sundays. A stroll at night in the park, a duet before breakfast.

But the silence infuses into his very being, and it makes him empty. There is no longer a symphony inside him, no longer does a transcendent aria radiate through his veins. His bones are still again, settling quietly after they shook so violently from her presence. Yet, to his joy, her voice is tender and resplendent in his heart.

Erik likes to dream. _Yes_, he thinks._ It is very easy to._


End file.
